The Impossible Road
by sunday55
Summary: A sequel to On the Road. Can a highborn and a lowborn ever truly be together? Should they even try, or are there things they don't yet know about their family history? Is the pursuit of the impossible a road that leads to true love against all the odds, or only a road to misery for Jaime and the girl? Jaime/OC. The Hound, Mountain, Bronn, Cersei, other characters.
1. Shadowcat

**This is a sequel to a story I wrote over a year ago, 'On the Road.' I'm sorry for the delay. As I'm unable to log in to my previous account, I have simply included a link to my previous stories, found here: ****h*t*t*p*s:/*/*w*w*w*.fan*fiction *.net */u/5239614/5sunday5**

**(Remove the stars)**

**I would recommend reading On The Road first, or you may find this one hard to follow.**

**A necessary disclaimer, all characters and places referred to in this story are the property of George R.R. Martin, with the exceptions of the girl and my own invented characters, like the horses. Cheers.**

* * *

><p>'It weren't even the boy King what killed yer brother.'<p>

The girl scowled through the gloom of the tannery at the leathersmith who spoke. So far his boring chatter had been easy to ignore, requiring nothing more from her than the occasional grunt as she struggled not to doze off, but this change of subject hit a raw nerve. Most folks around here had been unable to resist broaching the topic of her ill-fated brother at least once, but after that they knew she didn't react well. _Why does everyone think I'd want to talk about him, anyway? _She'd forgotten how much she misliked living in small villages like RedHollow. _No privacy._

'All the folks here at the time knows who it really were.'

_Shut up old man. Just fix my bow. _The girl yawned deliberately, to stop herself saying the actual words. She felt drained, even though she'd done nothing today other than walk to and sit in various buildings watching various tradespeople re-string, re-join and now re-balance her broken longbow. Suffering through their tedious attempts at conversation, their idle village rumours. _And now this._

'It weren't the boy King killed 'im, y'know.'

Still she said nothing. If she didn't respond, perhaps he'd shut up. It was unsettling though, how the leathersmith's words reminded her of the time someone else had said the same thing to her, and for some reason the memory of those past words seemed realer than the leathersmith in front of her.

_Seems like yesterday._

Except the accent then had been highborn, and he'd said 'Joffrey.' _'It wasn't Joffrey killed him, you know.' _His voice speaking in her head, like he was right there next to her.

_Of course he'd call him Joffrey. Was his son, after all._

The girl had to make a conscious effort to crush those thoughts. It didn't get any easier. She kept a band with small sharp beads around her wrist, and she'd found that twisting it until it bit into her skin helped to re-focus her mind on the here and now, not the past and never-will-be. Not a day went by when thoughts of him didn't creep into her head, but she'd decided there was no benefit in dwelling on things. She recited again sternly to herself, as she always did.

_Do not think of him._

Staring hard at the stained floor beneath the bench seat, she imagined instead how many animals had had their skins removed in this room. Their outsides peeled off, leaving their inner forms all pink and glistening. Despite her father being a butcher, she'd never much liked the look of skinned things. Everything underneath on display like that, still in a recognisable shape. She shuddered.

'I mean, it weren't like the boy King wielded the sword hisself, was it?'

The leathersmith continued with the topic, as if they were old friends. As if he'd known anything about her brother beyond tales, or had any fondness for him. As if he wasn't just one of the many small-minded townsfolk who'd always believed the worst of them both, who'd probably reveled in the excitement of the Royal manhunt, and taken vindictive pleasure in sharing stories of her brother's early predisposition to violence. Who'd shunned her, and the funeral; called her a savage and a bad influence. Who'd no doubt been one of the reasons why her father had killed himself.

_But hey, they tell me he's the best at balancing longbows in three villages. So_.

Determined to keep ignoring him, the girl concentrated on breathing through her mouth to avoid the smell of the hides hung along the back wall drying. She seemed to have a low tolerance for odours lately. She'd never thought herself particularly sensitive, but then she'd not lived in close proximity to lots of other people for some time. No doubt the tanning scent would linger on her clothes for the rest of the evening.

_Ugh. How long does it take to straighten a damn bow anyway? Should have done it myself. Maybe my arrows would've been off, but it'd be worth it not to have to listen to gossip. _ The floor wasn't particularly interesting to look at, so she turned to the grimy window, through which she could see a blur of green landscape, with some sheep-like blobs moving around. The dusty light slanted across the room. Night was falling, and the same shadowcat that had killed two lambs last night, and three the night before, would surely be back for more. And if this old fool didn't finish up with her bow soon, then there wouldn't be much left of her flock tomorrow.

_If I have to buy more sheep at this month's market, I'll need to use more of the gold coins Jaime gave me. Well it was Tyrion gave them to me, but on his behalf. Whether he gave them to me by his own hand, or not. It was what Jaime owed me, it was our agreement. Mine and Jaime's. _She snapped the band on her wrist, forced her thoughts away.

_Do. Not. Think. Of him._

The light through the window dimmed as the sunset outside faded.

_Gods help me but this is taking for fucking ever._

The leathersmith was in no rush to finish, methodically smoothing the sealed edges of her mended bow over and over with a pumice, despite the late hour and his client's impatient mood. 'He were a good lad, yer brother,' he reminisced, oblivious, 'I remember he were one of the lads used to 'elp me out sometimes, wiv the tanning. Sure and it's a messy job, but yer brother, he were always the cheerful sort, said he enjoyed learnin' the trade off someone as knowledgeable as meself -'

'Are you done yet?'

The girl knew that her blunt interruption was considered rude, and inwardly she cringed. But she'd never been any good at hiding her real feelings, or at being polite. Or, in fact, at most of the social niceties needed for civilised interactions within a community like RedHollow. She wasn't the most civilised person, and living here had sure made her aware of it.

_Why did I need to be, back when it was just me and Sooty, on the road? Horses aren't civil. They don't lie to spare your feelings. They don't care if you say the wrong things._

She sighed out loud, as the leathersmith continued sanding her bow, now in a sulky silence. But at least it was silence. _Sooty. I'd swap a hundred easily-offended villagers for you any day. There was only one human who's company I enjoyed as much as yours, old friend. And I'll never see him again, either._

_Do not think of him._

Her wrist hurt from twisting the band, _good. _She used the pain as motivation to leap up and grab her bow from the leathersmith's startled grip. 'Thanks, but this will do.' She dug coins from her pocket and dropped them into the man's open fingers, then spun around to leave.

'It were his dog.'

She paused.

'The man what killed your beloved brother. It were the boy King's dog. _The Hound_.' Recovering his voice, the leathersmith sounded almost as if he was smirking. 'I was there y'see, seen him in the flesh, when he rode back t' the Inn. Huge like a giant he was. The Hound they call him, on the biggest horse this side of the Red Fork. He had the visor of 'is dog-head helmet up and the happiest smile on his ugly mug. Sent chills up me spine it did. I seen the kid, your brother, lying there 'cross the horse. Well,' the man snorted gleefully, '_what was left of 'im, that is_.'

The girl felt bile rising in her throat. She swallowed, trying to push the bitterness down. 'My brother, just so you know?' she growled. 'He hated fucking _tanning_. He said it made him stink of shit, just like you.'

She slammed out of the building before the leathersmith could reply. Staggered around the side of the stone wall and vomited into the grass. The stench of the skins was still in her nose and the back of her mouth, she heaved another few times but nothing else came up. Taking a deep breath, she squatted with her back to the wall, hands on her knees.

_I don't want to know anything more about my brother's death. I don't care who wielded the sword, it was Joffrey who killed him, Joffrey alone who was to blame. And I've had my revenge on Joffrey, he is dead, godsdamned fucking dead, just like Maegi said would happen. So I don't care about anyone else involved, I've forgiven them all, even Jaime. Especially Jaime._

_Do. Not. Think. Of. Him._

She tried to re-focus, to crush the thoughts as always.

_So the words of idiot tanners cannot hurt me. _

She wiped her mouth, picked up her mended bow and headed back home.

* * *

><p>Home, for the time being, was the hut she shared with Callem Cole and his father.<p>

It was, as usual, very warm inside, and smokey. The men had evidently already finished eating, but her portion of the meal had been saved and was sitting on the table. She pulled out a chair and sank into it, too weary to even call out a greeting. Her disabled foot was sore today, even though she only slightly limped on it now. Some days she swore her toes were still there, otherwise how could they hurt so much? She wondered if Cal still felt his arm in the same way. After a day spent mending her weapon for the very purpose, she now found it hard to summon the energy to go and actually hunt down the shadowcat.

'H-h-hey there. G-get your bow f-fixed?' Callem looked in from the workshop, sweat shining on his forehead and arm from the blazing furnace they used to smelt steel.

'Uh-huh.' Speaking in actual words seemed too much effort.

'Oh g-good.' Callem smiled. 'That cat is d-dead, then! Have some f-food f-first. You m-must be h-h-hungry.'

Glancing at the cooling stew in front of her, the girl used one finger to push it slightly further away. Callem's brow creased, but he didn't say anything. She knew he worried about her, and this was becoming irritating. Having another person involved in and fussing over her life was not something she was used to, and, she'd come to realise, not something she much liked.

_Or maybe it depends on the person._

'Y-you'll be glad to know we g-got the order done for the B-b-bolton soldiers, bloody near k-killed us but it's done! Thirty-five apiece they're p-paying too, s-s-so with that coin we c-can restock at the market...'

The girl tuned Callem out as he began to list all the supplies they could now afford. Maintaining a household, running a business, taking orders, pleasing customers, deadlines, it was a lot of work. She knew getting the Bolton's order was a big payoff for them, she should be pleased. Callem deserved to be proud. But she felt apathetic about it. Like none of it mattered to her, like she was observing it from a distance. Someone else's life, not hers. _I like Cal, I like his father, they're good people. They value me, they care about me, I could be useful here. This could become my home forever. Be part of a household, a community, a family. So what's wrong?_

Maybe it was the stale air in the hut, or the heat, the day she'd had or just Callem's prattling. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. Despite her tiredness , she had the strong urge to be back outside in the fresh air. By herself.

'I better go... watch the sheep,' she mumbled, and without looking at Callem, shoved the chair back and hurried out of the room.

* * *

><p>One-Ear wasn't that old a horse, he just looked it. Used for pulling ploughs, he had not taken happily to being ridden. Anything out of his comfort zone was terrifying, and as the girl soon discovered while training him as a riding mount, outside his comfort zone was pretty much everything. It'd been tricky to even find a saddle to fit, because he had no wither and his rump was higher than his front end. It didn't help that he tended to hold his head at an angle somewhere just above his knees. In the end, the girl had fashioned a crupper to stop herself sliding down his neck any time he went any faster than a slow walk. Luckily, he rarely did. As well as being one of the strangest shaped horses she'd ever met, and cowardly, One-Ear was also by far the laziest. So walking was it.<p>

Out in the cold clear air, the girl felt better. Not quite her former self, but closer to it. She remembered life had been tough work out on the road, the constant dangers and hardships; she didn't kid herself that it had been easy. But she'd never felt this lethargy and lack of interest in life_. I think I need to get back to my delivery work, and soon, _she thought_. Like my mother, I'm evidently not cut out for village life. I need to go back to Goldgrass too, see my sister and nieces. First though, I need a decent horse. I'll never find another Sooty, but something a little less useless than this one would do._

One-Ear reined in close enough to the flock that she could count their shapes in the moonlight. Satisfied that all the sheep from yesterday were still there, the girl scanned the surrounding bushes and trees for any movement. Nothing. She leaned back in the saddle and stretched.

_'It were the boy King's dog. The Hound...'_ She grimaced, shook her head. Why would those words pop up again, and why did they trouble her anyway? It wasn't like she hadn't heard of her brother's death before, more times than she cared to. Everyone in RedHollow had been only too keen to share with her the grisly details of what they'd been told, what someone's cousin had seen, or some other version or exaggeration possibly concocted in their own minds.

Maybe because she now had a name. It got to her. _The Hound. _Not a real name sure, and she more than most people knew the dangers of not knowing real names, but still. It was enough to conjure up an image in her mind of a real life person, where before there'd just been a face-less 'someone.' 'Someone' had slain her brother, under Joffrey's orders. Joffrey had been the only name she'd blamed for directly killing her brother, but now she had another. She almost wished she didn't_. _But as everyone knew, it's impossible to un-hear something once you've heard it.

_Who cares? Nothing you can do anyway. A name is not a face, not like you'd ever find this Hound person, even if you wanted to. Even if there weren't a thousand more important things for you to do. Like kill this godsdamn cat. _

She jumped down off the horse, leaving him untethered. The beast never moved a hoof unless he had to. Bow and arrows to hand, the girl crept closer to where the flock rested, skirting around in the shadows. In a hollow by a large tree she crouched down, and waited.

Everything was quiet and still, not even a breeze rustled the grass. The stars curving out above her like sparkling mist, the sheep breathing softly as they slept. Her thoughts drifted.

_If I ever did meet you, Hound person, like at a market or someplace, I wouldn't hold it against you. I'd understand you were simply following orders... _she frowned, as the leathersmith's words repeated themselves like an unwelcome echo, _'.. the happiest smile on his ugly face_...'

_Ugh. Who cares! Forget it. Nothing changes -_

Preoccupied, she only caught the flash of movement off to the side at the last moment. It was her bad eye, but she should've compensated for that, placed herself more at an angle to the trees. _Damn. _By the time she'd registered anything at all, the cat had already pounced, knocking her flat on her back, and only the wood of her raised bow keeping its teeth from her neck. Instinct kicked in and she pushed back hard enough to crack the bow along its newly mended seam, screamed like a banshee. The faint hesitation from the animal at the girl's assault gave her just enough time to grab one of her arrows and plunge it up under its neck. Hot blood spurted over her and she felt the rake of claws on her thigh as the cat struggled to get up.

The girl squeezed out from under the dying creature, got to her feet and hobbled back towards where she'd left One-Ear. The flock had spooked and were running around in panicked confusion. One lamb ran lopsided where the cat had obviously got to it_ while I was thinking of irrelevant things. _The girl cursed her inattention, her stupid inability to focus.

By the time she'd caught the injured lamb, Callem and his father had arrived in response to her scream. Cole finished off the cat with his sword and Cal helped her settle the flock. Their congratulations meant little; she could only think of how inept she'd been, lucky not to have been catfood herself.

When she went to swing the injured lamb onto One-Ear's back, he snorted nervously and flicked his single ear in alarm.

'It's a sheep, you idiot,' she sighed. 'Don't be pathetic.'

_Sooty would have helped me with that cat, not stood over here like the useless lump of horse-flesh you are._

One-Ear shuffled sideways, entirely unconvinced of the lamb's harmlessness.

The girl touched her fingers to her upper leg and felt the wetness of the scratches. _Serves me right. I don't have Sooty any more, I can't rely on her help. I'll never survive on the road again if I let myself get so distracted. I have to let this shit go. My brother's death defined my life, well not any more it doesn't have to. I need to let it go. Jaime said that to me once. Do I have to die before I understand he was right? _

Her leg stung, she felt sick and exhausted. But when she closed her eyes she was back in that day with Jaime beside her, his beautiful green gaze unwavering on hers, his voice as he said those things to her full of concern.

_Impossible_.

He felt more real to her than the village, the hut she lived in, the cuts on her leg, everything. His face was clearer than the people she saw every day. She could touch him, she only had to reach out her hand. But when she opened her eyes, of course he was gone.

She grabbed her wristband, tightened it til it burned.

_Do. Not. Think. _

_Do. Not. Think. _

_Of Jaime._

But that, of course, was what was really impossible.


	2. Joffrey

In the light of the candles, hazy with incense, Joffrey's armor glimmered gold and white. His hair shone, and his eyelashes rested against the smooth skin of his face. He looked so innocent and peaceful. So young.

_My baby. You will never grow old._

Tears burning behind her eyes. Staring straight ahead, Cersei refused to let them spill. Whatever they said about her, they couldn't say she wasn't strong. Like her father. A Lion.

_Joffrey. My baby, my firstborn boy. I grew you inside my body. You climbed on my lap, I carried you in my arms, you fell asleep knowing you would always be safe. When you woke, you smiled up at me as if I were the sun and the moon and all the universe in between. Your plump little hands, wrapped around my neck, your voice calling me Mama. You were the first person I loved since Jaime, and maybe the only one who truly loved me back. You were my life._

'Dear sister. When you're ready may we talk...?'

Jaime stood across the bier from her, waiting impatiently. Another time, another reality, they might have embraced, taken comfort from this sorrow in each other. But not now.

_Let him wait. _She didn't want to talk to him. It was too late. What could he say to her that mattered, _now? _He hadn't been there when their son had died. He'd left before the wedding feast, ridden out of the Keep on a hare-brained mission. He'd left her alone, _again, _to deal with everything, _again. _By herself, she had raced to their son's side as he gasped his last breath, cradled his beautiful golden head in her lap for the final time. By herself.

_You left me, dear brother, with the murderous dwarf, with our father who rules kingdoms but cannot understand feelings, and a reception hall full of drunken sycophants and traitors. While you went out searching for a common whore. And now you want to talk? _

The heat of tears unshed made Cersei's skull feel like it was on fire from inside. Her hands started to shake.

No-one was there to see except Jaime, and the one person it had always been alright to cry in front of, her whole life, _the one person _she could show weakness to, was Jaime. But this Jaime... she didn't know him any more. He had hurt her. He was a stranger to her. And she didn't cry in front of strangers.

_Joffrey. Smiling at me. Calling me Mama. My little King. My life. _

'Cersei I'm... I'm so sorry for not being there. I want justice done as much as you do, for Joffrey. He was my son too. I wasn't there for you, for him. Cers, talk to me. Please just... _fuck_.' In the face of her implacable silence, Jaime exhaled loudly. He'd never been any good in these situations, Cersei knew. He became frustrated, he wanted to do something, he wanted action. He was a doer, not a thinker. _I'm the thinker. I've always been the thinker._

She ignored Jaime's efforts to communicate, turned her head slightly away.

_All the years I spent on you, Joffrey. The sacrifices I made for you, the lies I told, the pain I suffered from idiots like Robert; all so that you could be King. For you, Joffrey. For us. You were my triumph. And now it's all for nothing. Someone took you from me, with this one swift act of murder, someone took away all the years of my life I spent on you. Gone now forever, like the dust in the corners of this godsforsaken chamber when the servants prepared it for your body. Swept away like that, as easily as dust. Now I'm just older, and you're just dead._

_My life. Gone._

Cersei clenched her hands into the folds of her dress, bunching the layers of silk. She could feel the trembles running up her arms but was powerless to stop them. Her shoulders shook, then her chest; the rubies sprinkled across her bodice flickered from it. Trembles of rage, she could feel them running straight to her heart.

'I came to tell you that I'm leaving soon, tonight. I know it's a difficult time, and I wanted to discuss things with you but I understand if you don't want to. I had hoped that we could...' Jaime swallowed audibly, shuffled his feet on the stone floor. Cersei kept her gaze fixed on Joffrey. Her neck so stiff with the effort of maintaining her poise, it ached. When she didn't acknowledge him, Jaime continued on. 'But regardless, I have to go. I've left details with Swann, he's in charge of the Kingsguard until I return. When you're ready, talk to him... if you need to reach me, tell him to send word along the King's Road. I'll stay until Joffrey is buried tonight, and I'll be back in time for Tyrion's trial. I can't believe this of Tyrion. I promise I'll do everything I can to find out the truth, but...'

He trailed off.

_But what? But something else is more important? More important than me, than us? Is that it, my dear brother? My dear twin, my lover, my one support, my other half? _Cersei screamed the words in her head. Spat their bitterness right into Jaime's heartless eyes. While there in the chill and quiet reality of their son's bier she held her silence like a statue, inside she wailed like a demon and clawed ribbons from Jaime's face. _Pray tell, what is more important than everything we ever meant to each other?_

'I'm going now Cers. I'm sorry.'

Jaime's heel scraped as he turned to leave.

_She's dead, you fool._

In her head, Cersei shrieked the words at him.

_The lowborn bitch you're prioritising over me? She's dead!_

Listening to the echo of Jaime's retreating footsteps, Cersei's composure felt thin as autumn frost. It couldn't last, it was already too brittle to hold. She wasn't strong. Jaime had been half her strength, and even when he hadn't been there, the knowledge of his support had been enough.

_I am strong. I am a Lion, like Father._

But it wasn't true. Without Jaime, she was fragile.

No-one was there to see her now, only her dead son. But the uncontrollable trembling didn't stop, and she found she still couldn't move her feet. Her heart skipping from the tremors, and the tears all dried up in her overheated brain. She was paralysed with an impotent fury. She needed a target for it. Thoughts raging through her; she scrambled to grasp at them and see any sense.

Joffrey, the child in her arms, Joffrey lounging on the throne as if he was born in it, Joffrey at his wedding breakfast, opening his gifts, holding up that arrow with delight. The gift she had brought to him, such a perfect gift for a King who loved his crossbow. But Maester Qyburn's concern on seeing, and immediately confiscating, that arrow. The way he had cautiously only touched the case, and not the shaft itself. _What had the old man said? _'I fear this weapon is not as it seems, it has the look of a curse... I don't wish to alarm, but gods forbid on the off-chance it contains some dark magic... If his Grace permits, it would be safer in my possession until I know more...'

_His words hadn't concerned me much then, in the midst of the most important day of my life. And then Tyrion had obviously been the one who murdered my son, he had motive and opportunity. __But that arrow... it came from Jaime's disgusting little whore. I had presumed it stolen, such an item of rare quality. The commoner had gifted it to me, a wedding present for Joffrey._

_Could it be I was tricked?_

Cersei frowned, because the commoner had been stupid, coarse and ill-bred. How could it plot or trick anyone? It couldn't even write its name with a stick in the dirt. But yet. Do beasts not possess a natural cunning? Something had been wrong with that arrow, the more she dwelt on it the more she was sure. And something had been wrong with that commoner, something that made Cersei sick to remember. The girl's face had been hers. Jaime had been bewitched by it. Jaime, who had sworn to never love anyone but herself. Cersei wanted to forget, because it wasn't possible, but the truth is the truth, as impossible as it may seem. She steeled herself to consider such possibilities, however unlikely.

_Could it be that the commoner knew something of Joffrey, meant him harm? And if such deception is true, could it also be that somehow the thing still lives?_

The sellsword she'd paid had assured her the peasant girl was well dead before he loaded it onto the undertaker's cart. But short of searching the grave-pit on the outskirts of the Capital, wading through all the weekend's dumped, rotting corpses, what other proof did she have?

_If the thing could trick me, it could trick a sellsword. Am I paranoid? No, I'm simply careful._

As Cersei's mind narrowed to a conclusion, her restless limbs settled. The chaos of her thoughts focused. Now there remained only a ruthless certainty. If the commoner lived, and Jaime was looking for it, then she would send her own men with him to deal with it. Her way.

Cersei breathed in, calm and deep. The incense in the air like a soothing balm. She reached out and brushed her fingers tenderly along her son's lifeless cheek. It was cold as ice.

_If it lives, I will kill it. _ _For you, Joffrey. For us._


	3. HotPie

One-Ear looked rather shabby next to the four well-groomed chargers already hitched outside the Crossroads Inn. As if to avoid contamination, the other horses all stepped sideways along the rail, and the stable boy minding them pulled his cap further down his ears. One-Ear sighed , drooped his head and picked wearily at a strand of hay_. You'd think we'd galloped the length and breadth of the Riverlands, instead of a leisurely stroll from RedHollow_, the girl thought. _Lazy bugger._

She unpacked the bag of Cole's arrowheads, keeping her head down while she eyed off the other horses' gear. Their riders would be staying at the Inn, and it was second nature to check who they might be. Soldiers for instance, should best be avoided. But no sigils were stitched onto the saddle-cloths, and no banners fluttered from their harness. The stable boy's clothing looked nondescript. These horses were higher quality than village nags, but likely belonged to some wealthy merchants. Not soldiers. _Besides, no-one is looking for me. I'm dead, remember? _The girl hesitated only a moment before adjusting her hood, hoisting her bag over one shoulder and heading for the entrance.

Inside was much as it always was during the day, derelict and mostly deserted. Some of the tables showed black edges from recent burning, and near the fireplace a suspiciously rusty stain graced the floor, but overall The Crossroads Inn seemed to have escaped the war unscathed. The usual cobwebs shifted on the ceiling, in time to the melody of the usual inebriated balladeer, trying to convince the usual group of uninterested patrons to tip him. Judging by the minstrel's skinny frame and tattered clothes, no-one was paying.

The girl skirted around them, headed for the bar. She realised she no longer felt the foreboding this place had once stirred in her. Now it was just a run-down Inn, at the tail end of a war.

She perched on a stool, cleared the remains of someone's half-finished meal from the counter with her forearm, and waited for the InnKeep to acknowledge her. His greasy smile was insincere as ever, but then she was sure hers was the same. Taking her proffered bag and tipping out the arrowheads, he used a gnarled yellow finger to separate them, and then sniffed.

'Only sev'teen?'

'Cole's been busy this month. He had a big order for the Bolton House.'

The InnKeeper sniffed again and pulled a grubby purse from somewhere beneath his apron. He carefully counted out the silver coins into a pile, and then slid one back towards himself.

'You eatin'?'

A waft of cooking smells drifted from under a door, and the girl realised she was starving. She hadn't planned on wasting any coin on the Inn's notoriously dodgy food, but whatever was baking in the kitchens smelled improbably tasty. _They must have a new cook._

'Sure. I'll have whatever's hot.' The girl scooped up the remaining coin and stuffed it into her bag.

The InnKeep disappeared out the back and she waited.

_Maybe a meal will settle my stomach. _

The minstrel weaved his way between the benches and stood swaying besides her. He picked up a glass from the previous customer's abandoned meal and drained the dregs pooled at the bottom. She studiously ignored him, which wasn't easy. The fumes of alcohol emanating from his direction made her eyes sting.

'Delivery girl!' he exclaimed with hearty cheer, as if only just noticing her. 'The delivery of your beauty to this humble establishment is... your beauty is quite, quite... deliverable.' He slurred the last word and hiccuped. 'May I entert-tain your beautiful self with... with my entertaining... entertainen-ment this evening?' The man bowed, and had to put his hand on the back of the stool to keep upright.

'It's the morning. And, no,' she snapped, leaning back.

'But no fine evening is... is complete without...' he lurched forward, steadied himself, then suddenly burst out singing while simultaneously strumming madly on his lute. The girl jumped in fright. The song was as surprisingly loud as it was tuneless.

'Wow. That's awful.'

'The quality of my tunes always improves with some coin...'

'Please just fuck off.'

The minstrel paused, sensing her possible disinterest. Thankfully he was distracted by the arrival of a sturdily-built boy, dressed in a cook's apron and carrying a covered platter. 'Ahhh the food!' the minstrel shouted and stumbled forward, reaching out as if to snatch something off the plate. Despite being half his age and at least twice his width, the cook easily evaded him.

'Piss off Marillion, this 'ere is for the customer.' The cook plonked the plate down on the bar and turning, shoving the would-be food thief hard in the chest. The skinny man staggered, recovered, then swung his lute wildly. He missed the cook by miles and overbalanced onto the nearest dining setting. The cook crossed his beefy arms and watched in amusement as the minstrel floundered among the table legs.

'Sober up and stop annoyin' the customers with yer rubbish,' the boy growled, then turned back to the bar. 'Sorry 'bout that. If 'e gives you any more trouble...'

'Thanks,' the girl said. She tore off a hunk of bread and dunked it in the broth.. 'This smells delicious. Normally the food is crap here, but this is.. mmmm. You cook this?' She chewed and nodded in appreciation. The combination of salted broth and herbs did wonders for her queasiness.

'Marrow-bone stew with ginger, fennel and fresh baked damper,' the cook said, his round red cheeks beaming as he wiped down the bench.

The girl stared at his face, swallowed. 'Hey. I know you.'

The cook glanced up at her, eyes widened in recognition. 'Oh. Yeah.'

'Hot Dog,' she clicked her fingers, grinned.

'Hot _Pie_.'

'Whatever. You were with Gendry. And that highborn girl, little Lady what's-her-name.' She didn't mean the tone of her words to come out quite as churlish as it did.

'Oh. Yeah.' HotPie repeated. 'Arya. She weren't like, that much of a Lady.' He frowned, and straightened up as if to go.

The girl put her hand on his arm to prevent him. 'How is Gendry? Is he alright? I thought you lot were on your way somewhere further North?'

'We was. But we... was sidetracked.' Hotpie looked reluctant to stay and chat. 'Anyhoo. I gotta get back t' work. I got muffins in.'

'Sidetracked how?'

'Met up wiv some people. I stayed 'ere, but Gendry and Arya is still wiv 'em.'

'What people?'

'Jus' like... outlaw-type people.'

'Outlaws!' The girl's grip tightened on his arm. ' Is Gendry alright?'

'Yeah. They was both alright.'

'Gendry was alright... with the outlaws?' she asked, cynical.

'Well Arya weren't real keen to stick wiv 'em but once they knowed she were Lady Stark ...'

'Yeah, I don't give a fuck about Lady Stark. Tell me about Gendry.'

'Gendry wanted to stay, make their armor. Like I said, they was good outlaws. Decent.' Hotpie shook his arm free of her clutches, his expression turned sulky. 'There's good and bad outlaws y'know. Like there's good and bad _Ladies.' _Obviously he had a soft spot for the highborn girl too, just as Gendry had.

_The highborn Stark daughter, who used my brother as a scapegoat to cover for her own recklessness. I'm not so blind._

'Of course there is.' The girl smiled and slurped more stew. 'I just ain't met any.' _Well, maybe Brienne. But she was more a Knight than a Lady._

'Arya's a good person.' Hotpie glared at her.

'Arya had issues.'

'We all got issues.'

'Well. Guess these honest-to-gods, decent outlaw-types will have to deal with her now.' The girl smiled sweetly and used the bread to mop up the last of the broth, shoved it in her mouth. 'How'd they know she was Lady Stark anyways? When I seen you lot, she looked like a little boy.'

'The Hound told 'em.'

The girl stopped chewing, choked. Spat up a glob of dough and gasped for breath. 'What - _who_. What. _The Hound? _What d'you mean, _The Hound_?'

HotPie took a cautious step back. 'I mean, the Hound. He's like, a bodyguard. Worked for the Lannisters back in KingsLandin'.'

'A bodyguard, like _fuck!_ A murderer! A _hired killer_!' she snarled. 'And - and you saw him? When? Where is he? Is he still with the outlaws and Gendry and Arya?' She must have sounded a tad intense, because HotPie kept backing away until he was right at the door to the kitchens.

'I dunno. He was wiv 'em, that's all I know. You wanna know anything more, you'll 'ave to ask someone else. Me muffins is burning.' Then he hurried through the doorway and was gone.

The girl stood up, her head swirling. Filled with a sudden sense of purpose, she marched back down the aisle and smacked through the door, welcoming the rush of cold air. Hurrying along the path, she calculated all the things she needed to do. _Get back to RedHollow, pack, retrieve the gold coins from their hiding place, thank Cal and his father for letting me stay_... She ignored the rational voice in her head which told her this was all foolish, that getting involved in things she should leave well alone would no doubt turn out to be a mistake, just like last time.

But a contrary voice whispered: _How was Jaime a mistake? Wasn't he the best thing to happen in my whole life?_

_Shut up. Don't think of him._

She grabbed One-Ear's bridle and unlooped it from the hitching post, so caught up in her thoughts that when she spun around she almost ran into the minstrel coming up behind her.

'What in hells are _you _doing?'

'Marillion, master troubadour, at your service,' he mumbled, appearing marginally more sober after his clash with the furniture. He made as if to bow again but with nothing to hold onto, thought better of it. 'I couldn't help but overhear what you said. Back in the Inn.'

'And? Are you inspired to write a song about it? Spare me the rough draft.' She went to push past him.

'I have other skills! If you have the coin to pay for them.' He gave a sly grin.

'What do you mean _other_ skills? Your singing is less a skill and more an affliction.'

'No need for insults, girly. Only I know where the Brotherhood is, don't I?' When she continued past him without pause he caught her elbow. 'The _outlaws_. Them that's got the Hound you want to find so much.'

The girl stopped, looked the pathetic figure up and down. As well as being half-sloshed, he was so thin his gaudy clothes hung off him like loose bark flapping on a tree. The lute slung around his shoulder was wider than his waist.

'How much to take me there?' she finally asked.

His eyes gleamed shiftily. '100 gold.'

'You're a jester too, now? 30 gold is all I've got. I can find these outlaws myself. Go back to that screeching you call singing, and begging at tables.'

'I have expenses,' Marillion wheedled. ' If I'm gonna take you to the Brotherhood, I'm gonna need a horse, for one.'

'30 gold, and you can have this horse'. The girl threw him One-Ear's reins. 'He never goes faster than a walk, so when you fall off your drunken arse won't get hurt.'

Marillion looked sceptical. 'What you gonna ride then?'

The girl looked over at the merchant's fine horses, and the stable boy who'd been left to guard them. With his cap down over his face, his chest moved up and down rythmically as he dozed.

'Don't worry about me. I have other skills too.'


	4. Thunder

'Still not convinced we're gonna be back in time for Tyrion's trial.'

Bronn knocked the heel of his boot against a burnt-out stump and a massive clod of mud fell to the ground. He felt several pounds lighter. 'I mean, what we got, two weeks? Y' think she's just gonna pop up somewhere along the way? Thing is, it ain't easy finding folks who even want to be found. And unless this wench is real simple, which I ain't discounting, seein' as she got involved with you in the first instance; I can't see her particularly wantin' to be found. ' He repeated the knocking action with his other boot, for similar results.

Predictably enough, his fellow traveler didn't respond.

_It's like talking to meself. This is going to be a long trip._

Bronn mimicked a girl's voice: '"Hey Jaime, I know I barely escaped with me life last time we hung out, with yer family members all hating me guts and wantin me dead an' all, but I miss yer cock so I reckon we should give it another shot."'

Disappointingly, the Kingslayer still didn't react.

_Lannisters. Why am I always stuck babysitting them?_

Bronn scraped at the thick clag now coating the once-fine leather of his boots. 'Fuckin' hells. This shithole of a road needs re-surfacing. Get yer father onto that would you, M'Lord? Not like the Kingdom is short a coin. We did win the war.'

Not expecting any reply, and receiving none, Bronn leaned back against the dead tree. He slipped a flask from his tunic pocket, unscrewed the lid and took a long drink, then shook it in Jaime's direction.

'I mean if Lord Tywin took more of an interest in maintainin' thoroughfares and general castlery upkeep, he'd have less time for imprisoning his own offspring. Not to mention tryin' to kill their whores, don't y'think?'

That quip did provoke a muted sigh. 'It's the King's Road. It's always been like this,' Jaime muttered. Then he returned to staring off into the distance in a preoccupied trance.

Bronn also surveyed the view from the hill. As views go, it was undeniably impressive. If not quite to his personal taste. Despite obscuring drizzle, the jagged blight of the Capital they'd left that morning loomed huge behind them. Perched on the edge of the otherwise scenic coast, its blackened turrets spiked defiantly into the skyline like a persistently malignant tumour.

_Panoramic views are over-rated. Give me the view of a warm bar and a serving wench's tits as she hands me a steaming hot meal any day, _Bronn thought. _And some decent conversation._

The rain intensified, and a chill wind whipped up from the sea, making the people on the road below huddle into their coats. Bronn swigged from his flask again, appreciating the burn of it down his throat, then used it to gesture at the hurrying figures. 'After yer Lord father's done with fixin' the roads, and mendin' the damage Stannis done, he could clean up them damned gypsies too. Place's over-run with 'em. Actually, you should get the Kingsguard out here, wipe the vermin out.'

Jaime rubbed his temples. 'Are you planning on complaining about everything this entire journey, sellsword?'

'I'm a Knight now, not a sellsword. And I weren't planning on comin' on this journey in the first place.'

'Well you shouldn't have taken gold to kill an innocent girl,' Jaime snapped.

'Which I didn't actually do, you'll note -'

'Which you only didn't do because my own brother upped the offer.'

'The offer yer _own sister _originally made -'

'My sister would have half the Kingdom's innocents killed on a whim. You don't have to assist her!'

Bronn shrugged. 'I'm a sellsword. What d'you expect?'

'Oh. I thought you were a _Knight_.' Jaime's heavy sarcasm.

'I am, M'Lord.' Bronn acknowledged his error. Grinned. 'But old habits die hard.'

_Lannisters. Everything always such a drama. Always at each other's throats, and so touchy with it. At least I got him talking._

'Let's face it. If you'd never found out, where's the harm? You'd have gone back to yer old life and she'd have gone back to hers, and we'd all be happier.'

Jaime got to his feet and came to stand over Bronn, his expression bleak as the weather. He looked like he'd never been less happy in his life. 'If I was paying you for your psychological insights, your blathering might be useful. But I'm not. I'm paying you to help me find the commoner girl, whom you assisted to leave. Because you know her, you know the locals, you know the area she grew up, and because otherwise?' The Kingslayer paused for emphasis. 'I'd have killed you already.'

'Keep yer pants on. It's cos of me the wench is even still alive.'

'It's because of my _brother _she's still alive. And let's hope she stays that way, or rest assured you won't.' Jaime turned away. 'As grateful as I am to Tyrion for saving her... I could wring his godsdamned neck for letting her leave.'

'I think yer sister'll have that arranged for you.'

'Tyrion ... ' Jaime seemed pained with conflicting desires . 'My brother will be fine until I get back. The trial may clear his name, but if not, then... he needn't worry.'

'You gonna champion him, then? If you have to?'

'Of course. He's my brother.' Spoken slowly as if Bronn were retarded.

'Your father won't like that. Your sister neither. No doubt she'll choose some behemoth as the Crown's champion.'

'I don't doubt it.' Jaime turned to look over at the other members of their traveling party, and Bronn's gaze followed. Already settled in for the night amongst the trees, the rest of Jaime's men were gathered by the glow of a small fire. Even from this distance the hulking figure of one of them stood out like a mountain among pebbles.

'Speaking of behemoths. Why's he with us for, anyways?'

Jaime's eyes narrowed. 'Cersei insisted.'

'Figured as much.'

'Clegane is a loyal Lannister man.'

'Oh I know.' Bronn's tone revealed his scepticism of loyalty as a concept. 'So what does your sister think is the purpose of this expedition?'

'I'm supposed to be scouting the Riverlands, in preparation for a larger attack on Riverrun.' In what was surely a first, Jaime's voice lacked any interest whatsoever in war strategy.

'I see. And you reckon she bought that?'

Jaime frowned. 'I don't particularly care if she did or not.'

'Ain't you worried? You really think Cersei's sent The Mountain Who Rides along with us as a goodwill gesture?'

Jaime's sword hand stretched, tensed. Bronn could have sworn a light suddenly gleamed in his eyes. 'Ser Gregor won't hurt Ivvy.'

'Hate to disagree with y' there, but the Mountain can hurt whoever the fuck he likes.'

'He's a loyal Lannister servant, and in case you've forgotten, I am still a Lannister.'

'Yep. You're a Lannister, Tyrion's a Lannister, Cersei's a Lannister, Tywin's a Lannister. Which Lannister you think the Mountain's gonna maintain his devoted loyalty to, exactly?'

Jaime looked unperturbed. His right hand fingers flexed again, and for some unfathomable reason, a small smile crossed his face. 'Get some sleep, sellsword. We have an early start in the morning.'

'I keep tellin' you, I ain't a sellsword no more, Kingslayer.'

'And I haven't slain a King in a while.' Jaime's parting shot as he walked off towards the fire.

Bronn drained the last of his hip flask, burped.

_Lannisters. Fucked in the head, every one of them._

* * *

><p>By the time the sun was up, they'd already ridden ten miles. Jaime wanted to stay on the King's Road and question merchants and those manning the roadside stalls. Bronn considered this a waste of time, that they should ride straight to the Riverlands.<p>

_But who cares for my opinion. I'm not the one in charge._

He leaned on the pommel of his saddle as Jaime interviewed yet another couple of clueless vendors. Some of Jaime's interrogations were more violent than others, depending on the subject's willingness to co-operate. Which made for easy entertainment. Bronn picked his teeth with the tip of a peeling knife, watching the peasants squirm at the questions fired at them. Jaime held his sword lightly in one side, the threat evident. As he strode back and forth the blade glinted. Both peasants looked ready to make a run for it, despite the likely risk of being skewered. _One can only hope._

Grey clouds covered the sky and the rain fell on and off, making everyone's leathers damp and greasy. The wind had ice in it. Most of the soldiers chatted amongst themselves, all except for the Mountain, whom Bronn had yet to hear speak. The huge man remained apart from the others at the front of the squadron, right behind Jaime, Bronn noted. He towered a good head above every man there on his equally mountainous horse; a red roan. It must've been half draft. Its feet looked wide as dinner plates.

After the disappointingly bloodless interview was finished, Jaime remounted and motioned for the rest of them to start up again.

_Hope we stop for a meal sometime soon, _Bronn thought. _I'm starving._

They rode along the gradually less populated King's Road, until by late afternoon only a few travelers passed by. The small settlements and camps that had lined the roadside closer to the Capital also vanished. Now it was all valleys and burned woodland, with only the occasional hunter's hut to show any sign of human habitation. By evening, the trees were thick on either side.

Once Bronn thought he smelled charred meat, and looked around. But the wind changed and the scent with it.

A turn in the road brought a flash of movement up ahead, and Jaime kicked his horse forward. Bronn followed, as did the Mountain. In a few minutes the three of them caught up to the back end of a train of covered wagons, with various farm animals attached to the vehicles with chains. Loose horses ridden by children or cripples, cages balanced on precarious angles off their backs. A pervasive stench of goat and chicken shit mingled with burnt meat. The smelly cavalcade completely blocked the road.

'Fuckin' gypsies,' Bronn grimaced. He spat on the ground.

Jaime swung his horse off the road and weaved through the trees at a sharp canter, with Bronn and the Mountain following as best they could. One of the carriages exploded into a cacophony of barking, as what sounded like a dozen dogs protested their approach. 'Who's in charge of this.. convoy?' Jaime shouted, jumping his horse back onto the road and wheeling around to block their path.

The leading wagon stopped, and the driver leaned forward. 'Aye,' he grunted.

'I am here on the King's business, and I wish to search your carriages,' Jaime demanded, over the din of the dogs. His tone was one of unimpeachable authority. He trotted back along the carriages, rapping the wooden slats with his sword. 'Everyone! Out!'

The driver eyed Jaime, Bronn and finally the Mountain with well-deserved suspicion, but made no protest. _I'll give it to the Kingslayer, _Bronn thought. _He does have a knack of getting folk to do what he says_. A motley assortment of peasants began to scramble out of the wagons, many of them women, with what seemed an unending stream of filthy kids. Bronn didn't know which smelled worse, them or the goats. The assorted animals milled about in the mud, bleating and neighing, clanking their chains. A large white horse caught Bronn's eye, as it arched its elegant neck and stamped. Perched atop it, a small rider in a hooded cape.

'Hey, Jaime,' Bronn called out, pointing. 'Ain't that yer father's...?'

Jaime and the Mountain both recognised the stallion at the same instant, but the Mountain was closer. He spurred his big roan forward, reaching to grab the white stallion's bridle. With his other hand he raised his sword as if to strike its rider. But the rider was just as quick, and pulled the white horse backwards and away. With a practised war-time manoeuvre, the stallion pivoted, leapt in the air and kicked out, landing a blow on the Mountain's horse fair in the chest. Then the stallion and its hooded rider were gone up the slope in a flurry of mud.

'What the fuck are you doing?' Jaime yelled at the Mountain, who cursed as his roan stumbled from the kick. Bronn followed Jaime as he took off after Lord Tywin's missing white stallion, the Mountain lagging some way behind.

In the dusk, it was hard to see beyond shapes. They followed the hoof prints to a ploughed field and could see the white coat of the stallion out in the middle, shining like a ghost against the dark of newly-turned earth. Staying on firm ground Jaime circled around one way, Bronn the other, and they soon flanked their target.

'Really? My father's war-horse? Because no-one's going to recognise that,' Jaime rode up alongside Bronn and shook his head at the perceived idiocy.

_Good thing Ivvy was smart enough to ditch it, then. 'Cos that sure ain't her riding, as I think the Kingslayer knows._

'I did tell Tyrion it were a dumb idea,' Bronn admitted out loud.

The stallion was blowing and sweaty from the soft going by the time they reached it, and despite frantic kicks from its rider, easily allowed Jaime to grab the reins. The Mountain caught up with them as well, despite his big roan now limping badly.

The men dismounted and got a good look at the rider who's hood had blown back. The Mountain laughed, the least cheerful sound Bronn had ever heard. His voice was deep as a grave-pit. 'I heard she was young, but not that young. And not that fucking ugly.'

Even in the dim light it was clear the rider was barely eight years old, with a face like a deformed rat. With scurvy. Although impossible to tell if she was in fact scowling at them, she did sound rather indignant. 'Thunder'th mine! The thaid I could 'ave 'im!'

'You ride like hell, kid,' Jaime said, with some small admiration.

'E'th mine!'

'Hush now, we just wish to talk to you about your horse,' Jaime reassured. 'Nothing more.'

'Lord Tywin's horse,' the Mountain growled.

'Does that give you reason to attack this child?' Jaime turned on him, suddenly furious. 'Or was that stunt back there because you thought she was someone else?' He strode towards the Mountain with purpose, hand on his sword. 'Explain your action, Clegane.'

Surprised by the Kingslayer's recklessness, Bronn quietly distanced himself from proceedings. _Fellow has a death-wish. Count me the fuck out._

'Could've been anyone. I was getting Lord Tywin's horse back,' the Mountain rumbled. Both his hands went to the hilt of his double-handled blade, almost twice as large as Jaime's.

'Were you? Only, it looked like you were less interested in retrieving the horse and more interested in killing the rider.'

'I don't care what you think it looked like.'

Jaime and the Mountain faced each other, gripping their weapons. Expressions grim.

_Fuck it. I ain't getting paid nothing if the Kingslayer gets himself slaughtered. _Bronn cleared his throat, waved to get their attention. 'Hey, Gregor. Your horse looks right fucked. Good thing we got this one.'

The Mountain turned to him a glare that could melt steel, but the tension was broken.

'Your horse,' Bronn nodded to the poor lame beast. 'I think you need to replace it.'

A moment's pause, then Jaime and the Mountain took their hands from their swords and backed off. Clearly the issue was far from resolved, but it seemed the confrontation could wait.

'E'th mine! The thaid I could 'ave 'im,' the gypsy kid wailed. Snot ran from her crooked nose.

_Fuckin' gypsies._

Bronn gingerly lifted her down off the stallion's back, holding her at arm's length in case she had lice. _You never can tell with gypsies_. She weighed very little, a dirty bag of bones. Jaime knelt beside her. 'Stop sniveling now. You got to ride a Lord's war-horse for a while, that was fun wasn't it? And what's even better, you lived to tell the tale. How many little girls can say that?'

'Thunder!' she hiccuped, unconsoled.

'He'll be well looked after,' Jaime assured her.

Bronn raised his eyebrows_. Judging by what had happened to the Mountain's previous horses, that wasn't really the truth._

The Mountain began to undo the tack from his red roan. Jaime scooped the gypsy girl up into his saddle, remounted behind her. 'I'm not going to hurt you. But you're going to tell me every single thing about the person who gave you this horse,' he said to her.

They rode off into the dark. The Mountain, having transferred his saddle and gear to the stallion, now raised his great sword over the lame roan's head. Bronn, who'd always had a soft spot for animals, shuddered and averted his eyes.

_Killing men is one thing. Women too, oftentimes has to be done. But horses? That's a step too far._

He was glad the little gypsy wasn't there to see such a gruesome end.

Knowing gypsies, he doubted Jaime would get much out of her. And, as far as Bronn was concerned, that was perfectly fine.

_Because Ivvy is sure as shit better off not being found. The Mountain's here to kill her, that much is a given. Obviously Cersei's sent him for that purpose. And no-one's a match for the Mountain, whatever the Kingslayer may think._

_And what does Ser Jaime Lannister, firstborn son of Tywin Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock and Warden of The West, Captain of the godsdamned Kingsguard for fuck's sake, plan to do with a commoner girl, even if he finds her before the Mountain splits her in half? The whole thing's a farce._

_Yep, the best thing for Ivvy is if we never find her. There is not one bit of good can come from a highborn man and a lowborn girl being together._

_Whatever the Kingslayer may think._


	5. Marillion

They went the long way to RedHollow, along the winding paths known only to the HillTribes. The girl remembered them well. It took twice the time but there was less chance of the merchants tracking them that way. One-Ear had to speed up his normal shuffle to keep pace with the new mare, who was sprightly. Marillion only fell off once though, so that was better than expected.

The girl had removed the stolen mare's shoes and doubled back on their tracks, but there was always the risk the person who you stole from might notice their horse missing sooner rather than later. It helped to get a decent head start, when stealing horses.

_Stealing anything is always a risk,_ the girl mused. _But here I have a new and improved mount, new gear and some useful provisions in the saddle bags. I should have done it sooner._

Marillion, still reeking of wine fumes, stayed on the outskirts of the village while she went down to collect her belongings. Cole was away, but Callem was in the stable tending to the injured lamb. _He always did like fixing things._ It was hard to say goodbye to him, not because she was sad about leaving. But because she wasn't.

It made her feel terrible to see the disbelief on his face, the hurt. She realised that while she'd seen her time here as temporary; a safe haven while she gathered resources and licked her wounds, Cal had a whole other scenario envisaged in his head for the two of them. A more permanent scenario.

The girl hated feeling guilty. It made her resentful. _Is this something I'm responsible for? I didn't ask you to feel this way about me._

Cal followed her outside, pleading. When it was clear she was serious about going, his hurt expression sunk to a sullen bitterness. 'Y-you won't s-survive out on the road on y-your own,' he said. 'You d-don't even have S-sooty.'

'I don't need Sooty, I have a new horse.'

'You think being a petty thief will get you far in life? _By yourself?'_ he shouted. The pain on his face, raw, as if she was cutting off his other arm. 'Everything we went through t-together... our history...' Cal found it hard to express himself normally, so the girl was surprised that his outburst was so eloquent. Passion had overcome his stutter. 'With your eye, and your foot, and you being... _sick,_' for some reason he blushed, looked down. 'I d-don't mind! I would be there for you always! We belong together! Don't you believe in fate? And souls finding each other, and _destiny?_'

'I don't...' the girl shook her head. 'I don't even know what that means.' The words sounded cold to her own ears. But in her mind she'd already ridden out of his life.

Cal turned away, unable to look at her any more.

She was relieved to be gone . Marillion raised his eyebrows as she rode back over to him, hiccuped. 'Your husband didn't take it so well, your leaving?'

'He's not my husband. Come on.'

They left RedHollow and followed the road about a mile further East. She insisted Marillion stay on the King's Road while she went to retrieve her stash of gold coins from their secluded hiding place. _The gold Jaime gave me._ When she re-joined Marillion, he tried to hide his curiosity.

'Got everything then?'

'Yep.'

'Supplies?'

She patted the food bags on her saddle.

'Wine?' Marillion asked, with slightly too much hope in his voice.

'I don't drink wine,' she replied. 'And once I pay you, you can go drown yourself in a keg of it for all I care.'

'So I take it you do also have 30 gold, for services rendered? I mean, I don't like to doubt you girly, but... I'm a practical man.'

'I have it,' she said. 'And you'll get paid when we're done.'

'Where's someone like you get 30 gold coins from anyways? You must have friends in high places.'

The minstrel's interest in her finances wasn't at all a surprise. The girl didn't answer, checking to make certain her bow and hunting knife were both within easy reach. He may be weedy and weak from years of too much wine, and smoky Inns, but she needed to stay on her guard.

They rode the rest of the day, keeping to the river on Marillion's advice. It drizzled with rain and, without tree cover, the wind cut through their clothes. It'd been a while since the girl had traveled for so many hours, and her body rebelled. Whether from the motion or the chill, she had to stop twice to throw up the almost-digested remains of that morning's broth and bread. Marillion politely looked away.

She scooped water from the fast-flowing river into her mouth, rinsed and spat. The cold made her teeth ache.

'We can set up camp if you need to, in your condition?'

'I'm unused to riding long periods, is all,' the girl explained testily, remounting. _Gods, I'm a little under the weather, not dying._

They rode until dusk crept up on them, and the girl could no longer make out the dimensions of their surrounds. She tended to the horses while Marillion made a passable fire, and they toasted some biscuits and cheese. As the warmth of the fire and the food relaxed them, Marillion attempted what he obviously considered light-hearted chat.

'Sooo.. why so keen to find the Hound? You two old friends? Gonna compare facial scars?'

The girl touched under her eye self-consciously, the raised skin there still feeling foreign to her fingertips.

'None of your business.'

'At least he has a hound's head helmet to hide his. So your scar... it doesn't affect your eyesight too bad, then? Or is that why we're not traveling in the twilight?'

'None of your business.'

'If we're gonna be friends, girly, you gotta trust me more.'

'We're not, and I don't.'

'Ouch.' Marillion feigned being stabbed. 'I'm curious though, the Hound? Really? Only most folks would be tryin' to avoid someone like that, not seekin' him out.'

'Yeah well. He owes me something.'

'Gold? A favour?'

'An explanation.' She scowled. 'It's personal.'

'Must mean a lot to you, you sure was agitated at the Inn when you heard his name.'

'Do you not understand the meaning of the term _personal?_' the girl snapped.

Marillion held up his hands. 'Hey, I'm guessing you'd be happy with an arrow to his heart if an explanation ain't forthcoming.' He chuckled. 'So it's justice you're after. Well, you've got some nerve, girly, I'll give you that.'

She said nothing, stared into the fire. The flames leapt and fell, and bright embers twisted up in the smoke, winking out higher in the blackness.

'How'd you get that scar, anyway? It's quite impressive. Someone really must've took a dislike to you.'

'None of -'

'Yes, yes, we've established that. ' Marillion tapped his chin, seeming to recall a memory. 'It merely interests me is all, seeing as otherwise your face is so fair. And... somewhat familiar.'

'I've not met you before.' The girl flipped up her hood, irritated, and stoked the fire. After a few minutes of contemplative silence, Marillion pulled out his lute. He managed to strum a few bars and warble: '_A delivery girl born poor in RedHaven, With a face like a queen and a heart that was craven -,_' before she strode over and yanked it from him.

'Let's not advertise our whereabouts to every brigand, shall we?' she suggested. The lute was unceremoniously tossed onto their packs.

Nonchalant, Marillion leaned back. 'I heard an interesting rumour about you, Delivery Girl,' he said, linking his hands behind his head and regarding her with amusement.

The girl struggled not to take the bait, busying herself with setting out the sleeping furs and then chopping kindling for the fire. 'I don't care for rumours,' she finally muttered. He must've known she did though, and waited a long minute before continuing.

'I heard you helped the Kingslayer escape from the North.'

She made a dismissive huff through her nose, hacked another branch. It didn't dissuade him.

'A shame to hear it I must say... Why would anyone do such a thing, especially an anti-social little loner such as yourself? But then I heard the rumour that you quite fell under his charms... in every sense.' He leered. 'And I thought to meself, now why would the Kingslayer of all people be interested in a commoner girl? Now I've met you in the flesh and truth is, that face of yours? Well, it only provokes more questions.' He hummed a tune. 'Whatever the story though, you must admit it would make for an entertaining song.'

'I heard you got your tongue cut out in Kingslanding for _entertaining songs_,' the girl countered. 'A shame that wasn't true.'

'Your touchiness around the subject is also interesting.'

'I may yet cut out your tongue, _minstrel._' She split the last branch and gritted out her words, hatchet raised. 'Just. Keep. On. Speaking. Shit.'

Marillion seemed to recognise he'd gone too far. 'Alright girly, alright. 'Tis true, I was threatened with tongue removal not so long ago... one of my songs was deemed offensive to the wrong ears. It's an amusing story how I got out of it actually... ' he trailed off when he noticed the unimpressed look on her face. 'But then again, we're both too sober to enjoy it. Mayhaps another time.'

'Mayhaps not.'

Marillion yawned, rolled over in his furs. 'Sleep well, girly.'

The girl had no intention of sleeping. She kept her eyes on him, one hand resting on the knife under her tunic.

* * *

><p>She awoke to Marillion shaking her. Sluggish, she sat up, blinking in the bright sunlight. It took a while to clear the fuzz from her brain, dreams dragging at her like a dead weight.<p>

'You gonna sleep the whole day? Thought we had justice to attend to.'

The girl checked her belongings, her bag of gold, all thankfully still where they should be. It was a struggle to get herself together and she decided not to risk her stomach with food. They rode until late afternoon. As the sun dipped lower towards the horizon, Marillion directed them down a narrow path away from the river, which wound in random directions, taking them right into the heart of the Riverlands. Here, undergrowth thickened, the trees formed a canopy over their heads, and marshy ground hosted thousands of biting insects. The horse's hooves were muffled by mulch that hid numerous ditches and gullies, huge logs had to be scrambled over and tangling vines tripped their legs.

One-Ear grew more reluctant at each obstacle, until they came to a steep slope covered in moss and he flatly refused to move another hoof.

_Surely no one lives around here,_ the girl thought, _let alone a large group of outlaws._ But Marillion had insisted he'd been to their hideout before, and that this was the way.

'How much further?' she asked.

'Not far... shall we leave the horses here? No one will find them.'

The girl dithered, unsure whether to continue on foot. She'd have to leave her belongings too, and she felt safer on horseback.

'We'll take the mare just in case; leave One-Ear here. Don't bother to tie him, he'll not go anywhere.' She motioned for Marillion to lead the way.

He negotiated the slope, she followed. The mare was nimble but slipped a few times. When the ground flattened out they were surrounded by boulders and exposed rock, and the footing was even boggier than before. The mud sucked at Marillion's boots and the mare was fetlock deep.

The girl reined in, her queasiness returned with a vengeance from the swampy stench. 'I think we should go back. No one lives here but mosquitos and leeches. You must be mistaken.'

'See down there?' Marillion pointed through the foliage. The ground ahead dropped again steeply, then cliff walls jutted upwards. 'There's a cave entrance ahead. Can you see the blackness of it? It's the Brotherhood headquarters, and they won't see us coming from this angle. There's a ledge just under the slope, a perfect vantage point. Maybe five minutes more.'

The girl peered through the shades of greenery, everything now dimming in the fast-approaching night. Nothing distinguished itself beyond a general dark patch in a rock wall below them. She cursed her limited vision in bad light, the injury that had half-blinded her.

'I'm sure I saw movement down there too... best get your bow out, girly,' Marillion sounded excited. 'You could have the Hound in your sights within minutes.'

It did seem for a moment as though there was a cave, and something in it. Shadows that could be men. The girl imagined a large beast of a man, with a hound's head helmet and an ugly smile. She imagined asking him why, _why did you do it?_ then loosing an arrow into his heart. '_This is for my brother,'_ she imagined herself saying.

'We need to go on foot from here, the horse is too heavy and the ledge is narrow,' Marillion persuaded. Still the girl paused. In the dusk she couldn't see anything clearly. It was too risky.

'No,' she said, backing away. 'It's late, and the light's bad.'

'Seize the moment! Have you gone and lost your nerve, girly? What about justice?'

_Her arrow, flying from her bow, the thwack of it burying deep into the Hound's black heart. 'His name was Mycah,' she'd say. They'd be the last words the Hound would ever hear._

Marillion was moving on ahead without her, and she hesitated only briefly, then hooked the mare's reins on a log and followed. She caught up with him perched on the edge of a slope, the ground falling away sharply.

'Down there,' he hissed, taking her arm and pulling her into a crouch beside him. Nothing was clear to her, not the cave nor anything in it.

'I can't see,' she complained, scanning the greyness below for any movement.

'I know,' he said. Marillion's grip on her arm tightened, and then he swung her off the slope and let go.

She yelped. Tried to grasp something but felt only air. For a horrifying second she was free falling, then she hit rock and began to slide. Her legs over a ledge, into emptiness. There was loose gravel against her palms and she dug her fingers in like claws. Like anchors. The jolt hurt her shoulders and her fingernails spiked with pain, but it halted her slide. Dust and pebbles rained down around her but, for the moment at least, she hung there. Suspended.

She heard Marillion jump down and his footsteps as he followed her descent along a safer path. _Maybe it was an accident?_ But when he reached the ledge she clung to, he just stood above her and watched.

She scrabbled to get a foot-hold on the rocks, kicked hard, but the toes of her boots just scraped and skidded. Her arms burned with supporting the weight of her body.

'Is there even a cave?' she panted with the effort to hang on. 'Are the outlaws around here, or was this all a set up from the beginning?'

'Oh, they're around here,' Marillion assured her. 'And they do live in a cave, so I heard. Whether it's this cave or not, I really couldn't say. It's such a shame that your eyesight is so bad.'

'You'll never get my gold!' she gasped. 'You think I'd be dumb enough to leave it with the horses?'

'You were dumb enough to trust me, so I had hoped so,' Marillion shrugged. 'But regardless. I can easily climb down and retrieve it from your body after you fall.'

The girl was desperate to adjust her grip, but didn't dare. It felt like all the ligaments from her wrists to her shoulders were stretching out like molten glass in a furnace. 'The fall won't kill me, it's not high enough,' she snarled, pain making her furious.

'No, but it can't be good for the baby,' Marillion grinned.

'What...?' She couldn't take a breath. But it wasn't that she hadn't suspected. _I knew all along, in my heart._ She had just pushed the knowledge deep into her subconscious, where she didn't have to face it or deal with it. _I guess impending death is as good a time as any to face up to things._

'Do you always live in such denial, girly? I've watched you puking your guts up all day, being tired, sleeping crazy hours. You're obviously with child, no wonder your one-armed lover was so upset for you to leave.'

'It's not... ' she whispered. Stopped herself.

_No point thinking of Jaime now. He can't save me like he did before. He doesn't even know I'm alive._

'Tell you what.' Marillion squatted down, pulled a dagger from his belt. 'How about you give up the bag of gold you have stashed somewhere on your person, and I won't cut off your fingers?' He ran the blade lightly along her white knuckles. Used it as a lever to prise the fingers of one hand loose, one by one. She swung sideways, only a single hand's grip preventing her from plummeting into space. 'Hey, I might even help you up. Killing unborn children isn't really my thing. I know it's difficult to trust me now but... ' Marillion laughed. 'What options do you have?'

'Fuck you,' the girl coughed. But with her free hand she reached under her tunic and pulled out the bag of gold. It was weighing her down.

_And what options did she have?_


	6. RedHollow

The wolf calling at night kept Bronn awake. It wasn't a pack of them, answering to each other. Just a singular mournful howl, long and low, repeated from various distances away but every one seeming more ominous than the last. Making the hairs on his arms stand up.

_Wolves really are the masters at putting the creeps in a person. They're just flesh and blood dogs, but funny how in the middle of the night they make your imagination run to supernatural things. Lucky I ain't never had much of an imagination._

Well before dawn Bronn gave up on sleep. He rose, pulled on his hooded cape to protect from the pattering rain, and stoked up the fire. A pot had collected water and he boiled some tea. Then he sat there in the dark staring into the hypnotic flames, thinking back over his life. Early morning solitude always lent itself to soul-searching, he found. The people he'd met, the friends he'd made; the people he'd killed, the friends he'd killed. In the end he couldn't think of much he'd have done different.

Sunlight cracked over the horizon and the rest of the camp stirred, to begin the day's preparations. The Kingslayer supervised his men in getting the horses ready, then came over to put out the fire. No breakfast was being cooked, so Bronn had to presume they were going to skip that part of the preparations. He watched Jaime pour himself a cup of the tea but not sit to drink it, choosing to stand instead, his boot tapping a rhythm on the ground.

'That creature keep you awake too?' Bronn asked. Sans breakfast, he found a weeks-old strip of beef jerky in his coat pocket, examined it, and took a bite.

Jaime stopped fidgeting momentarily and cocked his head. 'You mean the wolf? No.' He waved a hand. 'Don't worry about it.'

'Oh? You met it before and give it a tummy-scratch?'

'It's a dire-wolf. She lives alone, and is local to this area. I'd say we'll reach RedHollow by the afternoon. Sooner, if we get going.' This being all Jaime appeared to care about, he positively radiated impatience.

'Not sure how that equates to 'Let's not worry about the monster wolf'.' When Jaime didn't bother to elaborate, Bronn went on. 'Speakin' of dangerous beasts, what d'ya plan on doing about...?' he nodded in the direction of the Mountain, who was loading his gear onto the new white stallion. With ease the tall man hefted heavy supplies and strapped on his long sword, its point nearly touching the ground despite the stallion's height.

_The stallion which belonged to Lord Tywin,_ Bronn recalled._ Before Tyrion thought fit to give it away to a commoner girl he didn't even know, just because the concept amused him._

Jaime looked thoughtful. Their gargantuan companion clearly troubled him as well. The gypsy child had revealed nothing of any use, predictably, but since the Mountain's obvious attempts to kill her when she'd first been spotted aboard Tywin's stallion, his motives for being here were no longer any secret.

'We'll just... have to keep an eye on Clegane,' Jaime finally said. He didn't seem all that confident.

'Why don't you just send 'im back to the Capital?'

'And alert Cersei that we're onto her schemes? No, she'd only have him out again on a solo mission. At least this way we can watch him. As they say, keep your enemies close.'

'Well, that's one philosophy.' Bronn shrugged. 'I tend to prefer 'Kill your enemies in their sleep and then fuck off as far away as possible.''

'I can see how that works for someone like yourself,' Jaime said, sarcastic. 'I'm a touch more notorious.'

'No, M'Lord, really?' Bronn snipped. _We all know you're the acclaimed Kingslayer, settle down._ 'Well then, Ser Famous, I'd've thought you got all the more reason to wipe yer enemies out before they get to you first.'

Jaime downed his tea in a gulp. 'Nice theory. Except everyone I know, or who knows me, or who knows someone who knows me, is my potential enemy. All it takes is the right opportunity or incentive. And wiping out the entire population of KingsLanding and a significant portion of greater Westeros, in their sleep, or out of it, seems... rather impractical.' He checked over at his men's activities. 'Either you or I shall be on our guard with Clegane at all times, he won't have a chance to act. Now come on sellsword, we're leaving.'

Bronn stood up, picked his teeth with a twig from the doused fire. 'Just don't say I never warned yer, Kingslayer.'

* * *

><p>Thanks to Jaime's eagerness they reached RedHollow just before noon. The village was located in a cleared depression of land bordered by tall trees. It was a small but industrious-looking community; with business dwellings leaking smoke from furnaces, produce stalls, different types of livestock milling in pens, and a cluster of well-tended huts in a circle around the main street.<p>

Bronn and Jaime rode in alone, leaving the Mountain behind with the rest of the squadron on the outskirts of town. Jaime left strict instructions for Clegane to remain at a distance, but in plain sight. The villagers were guarded as villagers always are, but helpful. It didn't take long to track down the one-armed kid. Bronn didn't know how he lost his arm, how he knew Ivvy or what the story was between him, her and anyone else, but one thing was immediately evident the instant Bronn dragged him out of his hut. The kid was fucking terrified of the Kingslayer.

It took very little encouragement on Jaime's part for the kid to break down and tell them everything. From the girl's arrival a few weeks ago, the details of her time here to, most frustratingly, her departure only yesterday morning. It was a short and somewhat painful interview for Callem Cole, although almost as painful for Bronn was having to listen to his godsdamned annoying stutter.

'Just missed 'er then, M'Lord?' Bronn wise-cracked, as Jaime remounted and Callem staggered back inside. 'I did say we should've come here right off. Without all that fuckin' around.'

'And mayhaps pass her someplace on the road? What bloody good would that have done us?' Jaime, irritated, wiped the blood from his knuckles onto a sash.

'You made quite the impression on that lad.' Bronn chuckled. 'His face went white as a ghost soon as he laid eyes on yer. Didya promise to kill him once or somethin'?'

'Or something.'

'It appears you been neglectin' yer promises. He's still breathing.'

'Ivvy was fond of him.' Jaime's voice softened and he gazed off into space, as if remembering a moment or past conversation that was important to him.

_I bet she was, she's been cohabitating with the kid for weeks. Sentimental fool you are, Kingslayer, _Bronn thought._ It's one thing to like a girl. It's quite another to have romantic notions of her loyalty._ 'I've never found it beneficial to do anything on account of a wench's affections,' he said out loud. 'Being as they go up and down like a whore's -'

The Kingslayer cut him off, irked at the interruption to his reverie. 'I think we've established that your life's wisdom isn't particularly helpful, so do stop imparting it.'

They rode back towards where the Mountain and the rest of Jaime's men waited up along the treeline.

'Sooo... she's riding a bright bay mare,' Bronn scratched his beard. 'No doubt stolen?'

'No doubt.'

'... and accompanied by some other fellow on a one-eared carthorse?'

'Mmm-hmmm.' Appearing troubled by this, Jaime reined his horse to a halt. Bronn likewise stopped alongside. Without warning, Jaime drew his sword in a swift action and pressed the edge of it to Bronn's throat. Threatened under his breath: 'And I don't want a single soul else to know those details.'

''Course, M'Lord.' Bronn used his gloved hand to push the offending blade away. 'Yer don't have to say.' _Bit touchy about your girl's friends, Kingslayer?_

They rode on in silence for a minute.

'Where was they off to, y' reckon?' Bronn wondered.

'Wherever she's headed, she didn't want the Cole boy to know.'

'Worth questionin' any other villagers?'

Jaime shook his head. 'I've already made enquiries of a few local traders; it appears she kept to herself. If Callem didn't know, no-one did.'

'Well, apart from this fellow she's with.' Bronn knew better, but just couldn't help himself.

Jaime glowered, but showed more restraint this time. At least he didn't whip out any weapons. 'The Cole boy said the man was wearing bright coloured garments, and carrying some kind of instrument.'

'Aah, a musician.' Bronn grinned knowingly. 'They always get the girls.'

Jaime, stone-faced. 'Do shut the fuck up, sellsword. Before I really have to hurt you.'

* * *

><p>Of course there were no identifiable tracks. The rain last night had washed them all away. The men split up and were sent to question any travelers on the road, but when their reports came back none of them included two people together, a bright bay mare or a carthorse, even from those marketeers who traveled the route daily.<p>

'I don't think she's using the King's Road.' After three hours, Bronn felt compelled to point out the bleeding obvious.

'No, she'd be on the back trails... the ones the Hilltribes use,' Jaime mused.

'Let's go find them, then.'

'Unless you've lived with the HillTribes, good luck.'

More hours of fruitless searching around RedHollow, yielding nothing. No hidden trails, no girls or wayward musicians. All the horses they encountered had both their ears. Drizzling rain leached into clothes and dripped off hoods, turned the road surface into a quagmire, making the day even more unpleasant.

Despite their lack of progress, Jaime still seemed energised. Flanked by his bannermen, he rounded up the troops and listened carefully to all their information, encouraging, praising, and outlining plans for the next day.

_Without a clue where Ivvy was going, this is all just a wild goose chase,_ Bronn figured. Thinking of geese made him hungry, so he was very glad when evening drew close and Jaime lead them all towards the Crossroads Inn. _Get some half-decent food here, at least. Meals are never great at the Crossroads, but Lannister camp provisions are fucking woeful._

The sound of the wolf's forlorn howling accompanied them into the Inn's courtyard.

'I swear that thing's following us,' Bronn muttered. His wet clothes weighed and chafed as he left his horse to the stable boy and walked with Jaime up to the front door.

'It's not following us.' Jaime scoffed. 'Why would it follow us?'

'I dunno. Why do wolves ever follow people? 'Cos they're hungry?'

After such a miserable day, the rich scents of stew simmering hit him like a gift from the gods. Bronn swung himself into the nearest table, as the arrival of Ser Jaime Lannister and such a large contingent of men sent the staff at the Inn scurrying like mice to serve them. Jaime asked the usual questions and received the usual answers; no-one knew anything about Ivvy. The InnKeep was more interested in obsequious brown-nosing, wanting to know after Lord Tywin's health, and when would his Lordship be back to visit them again, gods praise him and bless his health and happiness forever more. Bronn laughed into his stew. One surprise was that the food actually tasted as good as it smelled, and after seconds and a few ales he was back feeling quite his normal self again.

It was late, and all the more attractive barwenches had already been procured and taken upstairs. Bronn checked out what was left, then opted for joining Jaime by the open fireplace. The Mountain sat across from them, engaged in some kind of dice and knife betting game with another soldier. Bronn had no idea what they were betting, but the other soldier looked suitably nervous.

'What's on yer mind, M'Lord?' He plonked himself on the bench seat beside a pre-occupied Jaime, who was using a quill to mark out days on a parchment.

'My brother,' the Kingslayer said, studying the sheet.

'Oh, not missing commoner girls then? Surprises all round.'

'Tyrion's trial is soon and... I'm not certain we'll be returned in time for it.'

Bronn leaned forward with elbows on his knees and considered things for a moment. They waited until a fat kitchen boy cleared away some glasses. Bronn considered questioning him about Ivvy, but he was mighty sick of questioning people for one day and let the boy leave. Jaime concentrated hard and made another mark on his paper.

'If the worst come to it, if there was a trial by combat, you'd be Tyrion's champion?' Bronn knew the answer but asked regardless.

A shrug. 'Yes. My father's disowned me anyway... but Cersei?' Jaime sighed, looked conflicted. 'For so many years I've considered her my priority, it's hard not to... as a matter of course... put her first in all considerations.'

_Is it?_ Bronn had never understood why people were so invested in what others thought about their actions. _Must make everything you do so damn difficult._ 'I can see why you're compatible,' he quipped. 'Cersei always puts herself first, too.'

The Kingslayer frowned. 'She's my twin. I'm allowed to insult her. You're not. If you value your life, that is.'

'Well 'tis the only life I do value,' Bronn agreed. 'Folks only go gettin' themselves in trouble when they start valuin' other folks lives.'

'Yes, yes.' Jaime rolled his eyes. 'You don't see the point of love or family. But sellswords aren't known for their family dynasties, are they?'

Bronn was heartily tired of defending his new status of Knight, so he let it slide. 'I hate to mention, but here we sit discussing your sister, searching for your... _mistress._ And you a member of the Kingsguard.'

Jaime folded the paper, picked up his quill. 'Yes. What of it?'

'Well, ain't members of the Kingsguard meant to be all, forsaking love and family and stuff like that? There's rules on that sort of thing for men in the Kingsguard, I heard.'

'There are,' the Kingslayer gave a crooked smile. He twirled the quill between his fingers, headed for the stairs. 'But I'm not not like other men. So their rules don't apply to me.'

_Arrogant bloody cunt,_ Bronn thought, admiringly. _No wonder the wenches love 'im._


End file.
